


Match Made in Heaven

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: James Moriarty/Molly Hooper + Modern Gangsters AU: “James Moriarty wants to sell his business, Molly Hooper wants to buy it. It seems like a match made in Heaven.”
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 5
Kudos: 109





	Match Made in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BurningLostStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningLostStars/gifts).



> To go with [this set](https://dailymolliarty.tumblr.com/post/617482988203163648/james-moriartymolly-hooper-modern-gangsters), because @whyimmathere always does the BEST AUs.

"What's in it for you?"

Jim lounges against the plush chair, tapping his knee while his quick, clever eyes dart around the tea room, taking in the slick 1920s ambiance. Claridge's for afternoon tea wouldn't have even made his list, but Jim isn't the one who picked the venue for this rendezvous.

It's not a choice he would have ascribed to his companion either, before today. Jim catches her watching a couple across the room and while her attention is elsewhere, he takes a moment to inspect her with fresh eyes. With manicured nails and pale, tastefully painted lips, she's transformed herself into just the right kind of posh to blend in here. Her hair is blonde, cut into a long bob that brushes her shoulders – a wig, obviously, but of good quality and an effective disguise.

It's ridiculous, this whole thing. Molly Hooper, mousy Barts pathologist, can barely afford to splurge on afternoon tea, to say nothing of having the funds to pay him even a fraction of what his empire is worth. She wants to do it in installments, as if she's buying a bloody sofa.

And yet here he is, entertaining her offer.

Her head swivels back, catching him staring, and when he doesn't bother to pretend to be ashamed by it, the corner of her mouth curves upwards. "You haven't answered my question," she reminds him, prim but with a hint of smoke curling in her low tone. She reaches a pale hand over the table, hovering over the sandwiches before delicately selecting one with ham and caramelized apples.

Jim watches her lips part and white teeth neatly bisect the sandwich. "I want out," he says and slides his index finger around the handle of his teacup, lifting it up for a sip without his gaze faltering from her for a moment.

Molly's pink tongue darts out to touch her pink lips, catching crumbs. "Why?"

Jim flicks his fingers. "I'm boored."

It's more than that. He's filled up to the brim with _loathing_ ; he _loathes_ all of it – his imbecilic clients, their petty little problems, even the game. Even Sherlock Holmes, who had promised to be so much more than he'd ultimately delivered.

His teacup clacks loudly into its saucer, unseemly in the highbrow atmosphere. He's not bothered, somehow, that of the two of them he's the one coming off as crass. Jim leans forward, puts his elbows on the table and folds his fingers together in front of his face, "What's in it for _you_?"

For the first time, Molly falters, losing her poise. Behind his hands, Jim smirks, viciously satisfied.

"I want…" She hesitates, and when the words come it's like they're wrenched from her throat by force, "I want him to notice me."

_It's not worth it._ The retort is quick to his lips. But he presses them together and stays silent.

She'll learn.

"Ten percent," Molly says firmly, selecting a scone with a stubborn frown as she attempts to recover her equilibrium after the impromptu confession. By the time she's sliding a knife through the fluffy folds of the scone to split it in half, her spine has straightened up again and she's every bit as elegant as she'd been when she'd sailed into the Reading Room in a slinky minidress and a pair of strappy heels.

"Ten percent of every job, until you're paid off," she says, dipping her knife into the clotted cream and scooping out a generous dollop. "That's my final offer."

Jim is very pointedly _not_ thinking about those heels – the way they'd feel digging into the back of his thighs as he fucks her into incoherence – when he replies, "Deal."

Ridiculous. He's going to have to stick around behind the scenes and help out if he expects to see so much as a penny out of her. He's going to have to do something about Holmes – both of them, probably – and isn't that the last thing he wants? And with all that, it will still take a decade to get what he's due; assuming she manages not to tank his operation entirely.

Jim lifts his cup again for another sip of his tea, rolling it around in his mouth. Molly Hooper eyes the pastries with a relish that subsumes her cool aplomb.

If she makes it to a full month at the center of Moriarty's web, pulling the strings, Jim muses while smothering a sigh, he'll eat his shorts.

…

Six whirlwind months later, Molly hands him a final check with the same cool smile she'd favored him with that day at Claridge's, the one that sealed their deal. Her lips are red now, but her hair is still blonde. It suits her. As do the heels, these ones less strappy but just as lethal.

"I've tolerated it up til now," she says, dangerously bored. "But our deal is complete, and you will stay out of my business from now on. I don't require your assistance."

She never did.

Jim isn't good at eating crow, but when she moves to leave, he says, "Moriarty."

She pivots back, a pistol in one manicured hand that's appeared out of nowhere, barrel tapping impatiently against her thigh. In the shadows, movement – one of her goons. She's collected a handful, all unflinchingly loyal, and somehow that's no surprise.

"Yes?"

Jim stuffs his hands in his pockets and says, "Tea? Tomorrow? Claridge's?"

Molly watches him steadily through long lashes. She parts her red lips and touches the pink tip of her tongue to the upper one. "Very well," she says.

She wears the strappy heels to tea. She wears them after too, when she leads him upstairs to a suite and strips away everything but her shoes and his skull printed tie. And after that, while Jim is still recovering, she stands up, stretches, and puts the satin toe of her shoe at the inside of his knee and slides it up his inner thigh, stopping just before she reaches the join between his legs.

Molly idly brushes a hank of blonde hair out of her eyes. "Next week?" she says as if her toes aren't pressed against his scrotum. "Same time?"

Propping his weight on his elbows, Jim licks his lips, tasting red lipstick, Claridge's scones, and a drop of blood from where he bit himself while she was fucking him into incoherence. He looks down at the sharp stiletto braced unapologetically on the duvet. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Excellent." Lifting her foot off the bed, Molly gathers her clothes and dresses in easy, efficient motions, comfortable naked in a way she'd never been while buried under labcoats and baggy jumpers. She swans his way when she's done, bends down and grips his tie to pull him towards her, touches her thumb to the cut on his lower lip, and says with more than a hint of smoke this time, "I have another proposition for you."


End file.
